Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. ” His voice conveyed studied moderation. “You must pack for me.
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